


Perfezione

by stark_nakedness



Series: Talk to the Plate [3]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Desserts, Gen, Illya kinda sucks at emotional comfort, Illya tries to be a good bro, M/M, Muncle - Freeform, Napoleon has confused feelings about everything, Napoleon is dealing with some stuff, Napoleon loves to cook, Napoleon loves to run from his problems, Poor guy just needs a break but Waverly won't let him, Pre-Relationship, Slow Burn, Talk to the Plate series, but no suprise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-11
Updated: 2018-06-11
Packaged: 2019-05-20 21:41:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14902551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stark_nakedness/pseuds/stark_nakedness
Summary: “Not good to sit out here alone. Makes an easy target for lurking snipers,” the rough vowels made Solo's eyes snap open in slight surprise. Apparently Gaby had passed the baton off to the Russian. This was going to be interesting.“But I'm not alone. I have you here with me. Perfect deterrent for a bullet through the head, don't you agree?” he shot the taller man a small grin.





	Perfezione

**Author's Note:**

> Rough translations:  
> Dio lo aiuti - God help him (Italian)  
> Umnik - Smart ass (Russian)  
> Tupoy amerikanets - Stupid American (Russian)  
> Malina - Raspberry (Russian)  
> Sladkiy - [Taste] Sweet (Russian)  
> Minchia - Shit (Italian)  
> Perfezione - Perfection (Italian)

 

Napoleon was getting stir crazy. A week had turned into little more than a month. At this point he was seriously contemplating just slipping into the woods and disappearing. After all, he’d managed to stay off the grid years before he was finally caught. That little hiccup had only been possible with the aid of a misinformed lover turned scorned. She hadn't been able to trust him when he told her the truth, and within seventy-two hours he'd been arrested. In her defense, Napoleon  _was_ a thief that had a tendency to potentiate the truth quite often. Still, he should have seen it coming. Those letters couldn't have stayed hidden forever.

Nothing held him back now. No CIA breathing down his neck. No lovers to charm and placate for their discretion. He'd have no trouble doing it again - slipping past the border and becoming a new man. A fresh face among the elite that owned riches far beyond his dreams; begging for him to steal away. Being a free man once more; with no constraints or obligations other than his own. The life of his past, and possibly his future once more. 

His fingers twitched at the very thought. The urge to move was intense. Dark circles rimmed his eyes, and the last of his hair product had been used days ago. Now he was running amok with natural curls and a five o'clock shadow. He needed something to do. Something to occupy his mind. Solo had never been good at staying still when no goal was to be made, and there was good reason for it too. Lack of movement induced thoughts of his past. Memories he’d much rather keep buried and forgotten.

Running would be so easy. He'd just have to wait for nightfall. Illya would be difficult to shake but not impossible. Solo had plenty of tricks up his sleeve for the Russian. It could even be a little fun; something to remember him by. 

Even so, Solo refrained from making a rash decision. It was beginning to grow annoying. His inability to slip back into the world. He had a sneaking suspicion that a mouthy mechanic and a certain one-manned-army with anger management issues was the heart of the problem. He couldn't leave them behind. They were his team; _Family_. They were all he had left, and he wasn't ready to betray them like that. Not even when Waverly was proving less than useful.

_“How much longer?”_

“ _I'm afraid I can't tell you Solo. I myself, am left clueless. I have agents leaving false trails everywhere, and until we know that we've covered all the bases, you'll have to stay put. An unfortunate side effect when one does kill the son of a mad man I'm afraid. Do try to be careful next time._ ” Waverly had hung up without another word, and Solo suddenly could empathize with Illya when he was benched during a mission.

It was torture.  _Dio lo aiuti._

The door behind him quietly slid open. Solo wasn't much in the mood for visitors. However, he was too tired to put enough energy into a clean escape either. His eyes merely fluttered closed as he allowed himself a moment to bask in the warmth of the sun. The breeze carded it's fingers through his hair, and caressed his cheeks with a warm touch. Almost like the touch of a mother; a kiss from a loved one. A pang of something indecipherable shot through his chest, but he valiantly ignored it. There was no room for such thoughts when he was still restricted to the safe house. There were prying eyes and loose lips surrounding him. Napoleon wasn't oblivious. He knew what Gaby and Illya were up to - and no matter their attempts at getting him to divulge his hidden wounds - he wouldn't fall for it.

This was the problem when being part of a team. No one could leave well enough alone. It was harder burying your own demons with someone trying to drag them out every chance they got. Solo sensed that he was going to endure another in a long line of probing questions and poorly masked curiosity. Gaby had been on a roll lately. She had cornered him three more times, even tricked him into running into Illya on occasion. The only positive that came from those confrontations were the myriad of dishes that he made each time.

Plenty of leftovers were stocked in the fridge. Perhaps he would move on to desserts since Waverly had been useful in that one aspect. The lackeys who made the necessary grocery runs had actual sense when it came to fresh produce. Napoleon was secretly pleased. He'd been toying with the idea of a few possible recipes to cook next; dishing them up and sending them off with the two men as something their families could enjoy. A silent thanks for their dedication to the culinary arts. He made a mental note to take a closer look at some exotic dishes. 

“Not good to sit out here alone. Makes an easy target for lurking snipers,” the rough vowels made Solo's eyes snap open in slight surprise. Apparently Gaby had passed the baton off to the Russian. This was going to be interesting.

“But I'm not alone. I have you here with me. Perfect deterrent for a bullet through the head, don't you agree?” he shot the taller man a small grin.

Illya frowned at him in disapproval and Napoleon’s mouth twitched minutely. A tough crowd today then. He held back a sigh of disappointment. Sometimes the taller brute was no fun at all. Pulling a hand from his pocket, he waved it in a silent prompt.

“Something on your mind?” he questioned with a lift of his brow.

The other man’s mouth thinned in a ghost of a line and Solo locked gazes with steel blues - unwavering and imploring. It was too much. Not enough. He didn't have a damn clue. Solo felt the burn of Kuryakin's gaze even as he turned away. Damn. Napoleon wasn’t going to be getting out of this easy.

“It's no suprise that you like what you see, but frankly, you staring is starting to creep me out.” Solo glanced back at the Russian with a raised brow. 

Illya quickly blinked in a mix of surprise and embarrassment at the insinuation. The American felt his own share of curiosity once he spotted the sudden flush of red painted along the agent’s collar. He wasn't aware of having provoked such a reaction before.

A single grunt from the Russian drove the thief’s gaze back up. “Tch, don't get a bigger head Cowboy. Fancy hats would no longer fit, and then what? _Umnik_.”

The flush of embarrassment began to recede, and Napoleon couldn’t fathom why he felt a sliver of disappointment at that. It was a dangerous thing, and Solo knew he should ignore it. He’d promised himself he would; when the first stirrings of his infatuation had made itself known all those months ago. Illya had been a diamond in the rough; dark, with sharp edges that hid a golden interior.  Napoleon had always been fond of gems - was quick to slip them in the lapel of his suit and into his possession.

In the beginning he'd cased the enigma known as Illya Kuryakin; had toyed with the idea of having him. But plans had changed. As a thief Solo was many things, but blind was not one of them. It didn't take long to figure it out. Gaby was the apple of Illya's eye. Typically Napoleon would not care. He took what he wanted no matter who was involved. Except Gaby was too precious to hurt in such a way. He'd done the worst possible thing and gotten too close to them. For the first time in his life he _cared_. He couldn't find it within himself to destroy their happiness. So he tucked those feelings deep within - pushed to forget. It was all superficial anyhow. He wasn't made for relationships. It was best to dismiss everything and move on. 

But then when had he ever listened to common sense? Especially when it came to things like this. He was known for walking in the midst of danger - consequences be damned. Jump first, and think later. He licked his lips in anticipation; the feeling similar to the stretch of time preceding a heist.

“That would be a pity wouldn’t it? It’s your favorite look on me. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you include one whenever you dress me up.”

There it was again. A splash of warmth against the backdrop of milky white. A thrill traveled down the thief's spine, quickly followed by a spike of fear that threaded it’s way through the usual calm. He ignored it all in favor of watching the other’s nostrils flare. The muscles in the Russian’s jaw twitched. His pupils growing darker and more prominent. Solo slowly rose up; eyes catching on the flutter of skin along the other’s pulse point.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Illya ground out; voice rough with unease. Sharp eyes narrowed at the growing proximity between the two - Solo closing the distance with one small step upward. Napoleon could feel the heat of the other man; recognized the faint pressure of breath that washed over his face. Kuryakin didn’t move and Solo wasn't disappointed.

“You speak as if I care.” Illya spoke calmly - _deliberately_. Always trying to be in control; carrying that weapon within the arm of his sleeve. It would have been charming had Napoleon not been distracted by his own conflicting emotions. All a mixture of thrilled delight and anguished apprehension.

This was wrong. Napoleon should be walking away. He should have voiced a quick joke to distract, before slipping on by and maintaining that distance he’d so carefully crafted. He shouldn’t be standing there - so close to a man who belonged to someone else. He’d never been good at doing the right thing though. He was always fighting this alien attraction; always made sure to maintain control. Being trapped here with no escape made it so much harder - grinding down on his resolve. Always presenting a moment of weakness to divulge in something that was treacherous. He was merely a hair's breadth away now. _Minchia._

A nagging voice at the back of his head made him pause. A burning sensation bloomed within his chest at what all this would entail. Thoughts of the freedom it would bring, as well as the destruction it would incite. Would it be worth it to cause such hurt?

Illya’s words echoed in his mind - a persistent reminder at the forefront of His mind. His breath caught in the back of his throat - brows furrowing in thought. Solo’s gaze flicked up into the eyes of the Russian. It was the truth wasn't it? This. _Him._  It was not Napoleon’s to take - to covet and own. It never had been. This was one gem the thief could not have. A yawning pit of emptiness flared up like an old wound. The words hammered at him stronger than before; rough vowels piercing the conscious.

_You speak as if I care._

“You never do.” And that wasn’t what was supposed to slip past his lips. A sharp ache bloomed in Solo’s chest - breath burning in his lungs. Illya jerked back in surprise - eyes wide - as if burned by the implication of his words. Solo took in a sharp breath, and he was finally able to move. Jerking back, Napoleon quickly pivoted away. Heart thudding, he skipped down the steps and steered off down a different path - towards a direction of escape. Shoving a hand through his hair Solo clenched his jaw in frustration.

“Solo,” Illya beckoned, but the thief wasn’t in the mood to listen. He’d been so close to doing… what? Kissing the man? Stupid of him really. He may have forged a bond with these people, but he never belonged with them in such a way. And that was perfectly fine. Solo had made his peace with that months ago. Damn Kuryakin. He needed to get away. Now more than ever.

Napoleon didn't hesitate to turn off the paved path - seeking solace in the forest surrounding the safe house. It was dangerous and stupid but he was beyond caring. Let them take him. The further away from that place the better.

A litany of Russian curses preceded the sound of hurried steps. Solo picked up his own pace - there was an alcove of brush ahead. It wasn’t ideal, but it would provide enough cover for a moment's peace. He couldn't face the other man. Not right now. Solo could have hid himself in his room, yet the thought of entering that house already seemed suffocating. God he needed a vacation.

Twigs clung to his clothes as leaves got caught in his hair. The smell of dirt and fresh air burned in his lungs as he walked onward. The open space was invigorating and liberating. His muscles slowly began to uncoil the further he got. As the sound of Illya faded to the background relief courses through him. It felt good stretching his legs. 

A swatch of maroon caught his eye as he ducked under a low branch, and he couldn’t help but cock his head in curiosity - the notion of escape momentarily forgotten. Another curse floated past his ears as he smoothly cleared the capstones of crumbling fence line, but he couldn't be bothered to listen. He had a new mission - and a rather delectable one at that.

His excitement grew at the sight of a few bushes hidden away. The scent reached him first; so familiar and sweet. Brushing aside weed growth, the thief crouched down low. Furrowing his brow, he stretched forward to claim his prize. Grinning in triumph he plucked the small delicacy from a branch before popping it into his mouth. His eyes fluttered close at the burst of flavor that exploded along his tongue. He hadn’t had such fruit since he was a child.

“Napoleon,” the tight sound of his name broke him out of his reverie. Glancing up, he found Illya looming above him - chest heaving and eyes wide in a silent panic. Solo worked to clamp down on the rising sense of guilt at having worried the Russian. 

“Running off like a child will get you _killed_ . _Tupoy Amerikanets._ Don’t ever think of leaving me and  -”

It wasn’t a conscious decision, but the thief needed a way to get the man to shut up. To stop the flow of words that could shatter whatever semblance of normalcy they had left. Napoleon moved without any sense of hesitance. Swift, confident, and smooth. Surging upward, he stepped close to the upset man. Illya startled at the unexpected motion, mouth left open as he was cut off from his initial rant. It was the perfect opportunity for Solo to make his move.

A single flick of his wrist, and the American successfully pushed the small fruit past the lips of the other. The taller man’s jaw clicked shut automatically, the fruit unceremoniously being crushed with the action. Their eyes locked once more, and Napoleon held perfectly still. Nothing but the sound of their breaths and Illya’s slow chewing broke the silence.

Eyes flickering down, Solo caught the sight of his throat's movement as Illya swallowed. The berry stained the curve of his bottom lip; painting it in a soft red hue. Solo forced his gaze away, and took a step back. Clearing his throat he shot the spy a questioning look.

“ _Malina._ It is - how you say - _sladkiy._ ” Kuryakin finally commented.  

Napoleon nodded once in agreement. A grin curved its way across his face at the look of appreciation on the gruff man’s face.

“Right you are Peril. Raspberries these sweet are indeed a treat,” pursing his lips in thought, Solo reached towards Illya, “and that is why we will be taking some back with us.”

Without a second thought, Napoleon tugged at the shirt tucked into the taller mens belt.

“What is this?” Illya questioned with a furrowed brow. Peeling the tails of the Russian’s shirt free, Napoleon held it out as a makeshift basket.

“I can’t carry these myself,” Solo busied himself with collecting the berries, “which means you’ll have to do.”

“I am not basket Cowboy.” The Russian grumbled, but made no attempt to move.

“I’d say not. A basket wouldn’t complain as much as you do.” Napoleon quipped back. His muscles loosened at the familiar banter. He knew better than to think that a conversation about earlier wouldn’t take place. But for now Illya merely grunted and moved to help Solo pick the berries. 

Rolling a berry in his hand, Solo crushed it. The red juice bubbled from the fruit - dribbling down his fingers and staining it red. They'd be perfect for a soufflé. The scent itched at his nose; tugging at memories of home and family. Solo paused and licked his lip contemplatively.

“When I was a boy,” a deep breath to calm the beating of his heart. He’d never told anyone of this story. Plucking another raspberry, he tossed it into Illya’s shirt before continuing.

“My mother would make the best soufflé. Cooking was her passion. She was the best in her village. Worked tirelessly to perfect it. She loved the challenge especially when it came to her wedding.” Solo licked at his thumb.

“She would make that soufflé religiously. Every Sunday we could look forward to something sweet. ' _Perfezione' - s_ he had said. All the other boys were so jealous.” A bittersweet smile curved along the younger man’s lips as he turned away.

Memories of him so young filtered through Solo's mind. Lips throbbing and eyes rimmed as red as the berries on the dish. Napoleon had looked forward to those evenings. A time where his mother could look decently happy once more. An illusion of safety and peace. With no man dragging them down; beating against them for his own sick pleasure. Solo ate another berry. The flavor so rich and tantalizing in his mouth. If only his mother were there with him. She would have loved this.

Movement from Illya broke Solo out of his thoughts. The words he voiced caused the thief to tense as all feelings of nostalgia washed away in cold realization.

“Typical Cowboy. Even as a child you were spoiled, yes?”

Napoleon knew it was said in jest, but he couldn't gather the motivation to taunt the other back. Spoiled was one way to put it. He cocked his head to the side; gathering the last of the fruit he needed. Humming in thought, he threw out a blatant response. 

"Perhaps more like a bruised fruit, yes.” Illya  could take from that what he wanted. A bone for him and Gaby to chew over; perhaps to keep them busy enough until they could leave this place. 

Without turning to look at Illya, Solo wiped his hands clean along his slacks. Taking to a stand Solo began the trek back to the safe house. He'd tried to, and once again he failed. He just couldn't leave his team behind. 

“Come along Peril."

"Solo," the other man called out. Napoleon could hear the question lying heavy on his tongue. Maybe Napoleon shouldn't have said anything. He held in a sigh. 

"Gaby will be delighted to hear of my discovery." The thief worked to deflect. It was a poor attempt, but he was too tired to care. 

"Cowboy, what you said. What does-"

Napoleon couldn't stand it. Couldn't bear the weight of that question right now. He knew he couldn't avoid it forever, but he wasn't ready; didn't know if he'd ever _be_ ready. Pausing, he looked back over his shoulder. The abrupt change of pace forced Illya to cede movement. Napoleon tucked his hands in his pockets - posture lax. Chin tucked to his chest in thought, he shrugged his shoulders. 

"It means that nothing matters but the good times. That there are ways to treasure those single moments of happiness and content. We can loose ourselves in the memories we hold dear whether it be through food, working on an engine, or playing chess against ones self," Solo threw Illya a meaningful look.

"It's an escape Peril.  _Perfezione."_

The word was uttered so softly. A flash of something indecipherable sparked within the young man's eyes. Kuryakin dared not breath for fear of breaking whatever it is that lied between them.

Illya was confused; lost in the knowledge that Napoleon carried something dark and painful with him. He couldn't fully understand what was being given to him, yet he could feel that it was important. A vital key in understanding the complex man standing before the Russian. To see that he had just as many broken parts as the other two. Standing there - gazes locked - Illya could only find one thing to say. 

_"Perfezione."_

Napoleon chuckled. A sad, sharp thing. Illya's heart clenched. What had this man gone through to feel such hurt. To have reacted the way he had weeks ago. To find solace in food rather than people. Solo took a deep breath; mask slipping into place. Beckoning the other forward, he offered a voice of agreement. 

"Right you are Peril. It's perfection _."_

 

**Author's Note:**

> This has gone through some crazy edits. Not sure if I'm happy with it, but I figured you guys had waited long enough. Enjoy!


End file.
